


Forelith 1392

by theblindtorpedo



Series: Frodo and Sam Short Fics [5]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff, Found Family, Gen, POV Outsider, Pre-Canon, Sam gets a worldly education from his Eccentric Masters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:35:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25368481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo
Summary: The Gamgee and Cotton families think it mighty peculiar that young Sam has taken up reading with the Bagginses. And learning Elvish of all things! Sam is too enraptured to care about appearances. Rosie has some insights.
Series: Frodo and Sam Short Fics [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/111842
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Forelith 1392

**Author's Note:**

> written in 2012 on tumblr
> 
> Perrianth is the Elvish word for hobbit

“Pear-perree. . . nuth. Perrianth?” Rosie rolled the unfamiliar sounds over in her mouth.

“Perrianth.” Sam said with deliberation.

“That what I said?”

“Say it again.”

“Perrianth.”

Sam looked thoughtful. “Perhaps I am saying it wrong. What you said, that just don’t sound right. Not like Mr. Bilbo or Master Frodo say it.”

“And Mr. Bilbo learning it from elves, and Mr. Frodo from him, so as I see it by the time it gets to you Sam the sounds are probably all mixed up. Anyways, Hobbits weren’t made for elf speak. If I had known you’d rather fill mouths with elf speak than your Ma’s cooking I’d never have taken Mr. Bilbo up on his offer,” Hamfast Gamgee grumbled goodnaturedly from where he sat at the head of the table.

“You have never been able to refuse a gift from Mr. Bilbo and you knows it,” his wife interjected.

“He’s tougher than a conker when he wants something!”

“Alls I can say is we should be honored that Mr. Bilbo chose our Samwise,” Bell Gamgee continued, “But we thought it were to be a few letters on Sterdays. What’s this about Elf-speak?”

Sam squirmed. As much as his family and their circle admired the Bagginses, their propensity for books and foreign lore was still considered eccentric at best and frivolous at worst. He did not wish to be considered either.

“Master Frodo wished to show me some old tales.” Half truths then. He would not say how he had one day boldly asked about some books more complicated than Mr. Bilbo’s primers and that Mr. Bilbo had delightedly suggested that it would improve Frodo’s understanding to explain them to Sam. He had not yet mastered common script, but his interest in the stories beneath the strange writing, which Frodo had explained as Elvish, had kept the lessons continuing. Master Frodo was a good teacher, possessed of greater patience than Mr. Bilbo. Sam had only learned a few words, but Master Frodo beamed at him each time he recited them. He did not say that some days the Bagginses would not teach, but sit him down on the hearth with a mug of tea and tell stories. He did not say that on most working days, while his father was out of earshot in the kitchen gardens or was at market, Master Frodo would sit on the garden bench and read to him. They were not tales of the Shire, they were those of faraway lands and wise peoples, those that he longed to understand if not for the barrier of language. But these were translated by Mr. Bilbo into simple words or on rare occasions, Frodo himself, although he was shy to share his own work. He would not say how he had nearly cried on the day when Frodo had not come out because he was ill. Kind Mr. Bilbo had taken pity on him and let him inside the invalid’s room. Frodo had smiled then, albeit weakly. Sam had floundered, unwilling to leave his master’s side yet unsure of what to do that was within proper conduct. Mr. Bilbo, sensing his predicament, had pressed a small book of hobbit stories into his palm, and left to take care of Masterly business. Sam had sat for near an hour beside the bed, struggling over the words, until Frodo’s breathing became heavy with sleep. Then he sat and watched, wondering at a new sense of calm. It was strange, for though Frodo had said nothing and had drifted away in mind, Sam felt that Frodo was thankful for his presence. He could not tell his family these thoughts, for he himself did not fully understand the hold Frodo Baggins held upon him. He kept mum.

“You’ve taken up with Master Frodo as well? When do you garden?” Tom Cotton laughed, and pulled at his pipe. “We’ve got no hope of him turning out full of hobbit sense, though I dare say he’s an ear better than Mr. Bilbo. Least, I don’t need to hear a speech or poem before meals when he comes ‘round for rent. But he must spend too much time indoors, pale for a tween. Not healthy being all over books all day. Don’t let him get to your lad, Hamfast. Soon he’ll care nought for gardening.”

“Never!” Sam said with indignation.

“Sh, silly Sam,” Rose giggled, “everyone knows you’d rather sleep in a garden than a bed.”

“My lad knows what’s right to his station,” huffed the Gaffer, “T’wouldn’t be right to go refusing the whims of his future full master. A bit of Elf-speak won’t hurt, I suppose. Make him more worldly.”

“Why would he need to be that?”

“Well, Tom, can’t say I know, but there’s talk of more Elves moving.”

“Then they’re not taking the East Road. I’ve not seen one.”

“Nor have I.” A tense silence followed. Both parties were growing visibly tired of a conversation neither of them had much interest in. The entire party was relived to hear little Nibs’ cry of “Supper!” from Bell Gamgee’s arms. The hobbit-lad had sighted his mother coming into the main room, flanked by the Gamgee lasses, each bearing heaping platters of food. Little Marigold trotted behind, proudly cradling a small bowl of strawberry jelly.

Rosie prodded Sam with her foot under the table and leaned over to whisper.

“More later.”

In another context or if said with greater force the statement could have been construed as a question or a demand, but between Rosie and Sam, the closest of friends among the Cotton-Gamgees, such matter of fact speech was common. They knew each other back to front. If the families were together they did everything they were allowed in each other’s company. There was no presumption; this was how things were done. They could sense the other’s feelings, desires, disinterest or sadness, and could respond without any of the messiness of puzzling the truth of another’s mind through words. Most who observed them believed this a remarkable and enviable gift. It was in common agreement that their future children would be both sensible and beautiful.

The meal was lengthy, passing with no more references to the Bagginses or Sam’s unorthodox education. Tom consulted the Gaffer on the suitability of adding yams to his crop rotations, while their wives discussed the plans for the dresses they would make for Millie Brownhole and Holl Twofoot’s impending Afterlithe wedding. The small boys smeared food about their faces and were tended to by the girls. Sam spoke little, but was content to eat and watch.

Once the meal and dish washing was over Sam and Rosie sat on the stoop, watching the stars spill out across the sky. The warm early summer air did not necessitate a fire and the door was left ajar, so any concerned mother might silently pass by and make sure the children were all right. None would that night, for Sam and Rosie were of least concern. From inside the house snippets of gossip and chattering of their siblings fell on their ears, though nothing entered their heads except the words of their companion.

“Tell me a story,” Rose said.

“I’ve learned a lot of stories.”

“And I’ll hear them all?

“Mr. Bilbo says even one listener makes a story worth telling.”

“Is that why Master Frodo tells you so many, because you’re the only one who’ll listen?”

Sam suddenly felt very sad. Sadder still that Rosie had not meant to hurt him. But the possibility of her words had long crossed his mind. He had tried to bury those misgivings 

“He has many friends,” he said.

“Does he tell them stories?”

“Not like mine,” he said emphatically.

“How would you know?”

He had never considered this. He had seen Mr. Frodo at all times of the day, disgruntled from rising, flush from a bath or stroll, contemplative in fire light. These moments were intimate and Sam felt, in his child’s mind, that he had come to understand Frodo through witnessing them. But he had never seen Frodo with his friends. He had not seen Frodo out drinking or dancing with girls. He knew often he would visit the other Boffins and Baggins who lived in Hobbiton. It came to Sam then that Frodo was much older than he. He had an entire life Sam did not know of.

“You are making me sad,” he said gloomily.

“Oh I know. But I think it is good that you think of it.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Okay. Then don’t,” she said simply, and laid her head upon his shoulder, “then tell me a story.”


End file.
